He stared.

She wet her lips. She could not stop now. "You have hurt me so much since you left and now again, since you came home. Sean, do you realize that you never hurt me, not genuinely, in all those years when we were growing up together? You were my hero."

"Stop," he whispered.

She shook her head. "Maybe you didn't need an annoying brat spying on you all the time-or a young woman who gladly rubbed her hands raw to help you rebuild your home. In fact, I am sure you would have had a pleasant boyhood growing up without me, just as I am sure you could have rebuilt Askeaton without me."

"I'm sorry," he offered.

"No! You had your say and now I have mine. You need me. You are suffering from the pain of Michael's death, and the two years spent in prison, and maybe even more than that-I don't know. You need me as you have never needed anyone or anything before. You need me more than air, food and water!"

He reached out to grasp the back of a chair.

"Do you know what else I realized this afternoon?"

He didn't move, his gaze unwavering.

"I love you with all of my heart-not just the way you were, but the way you are now."

He closed his eyes tightly. "Then you are mad," he said.

"Yes, you are probably right. But today I have seen the truth. You are running from Michael's murder. So be it. But you can't run from me. I want to be your wife. And if I have to, I will wait-for as long as it takes."

He inhaled, turning white. "No."

And she began to tremble. "I am not going home to marry Sinclair, Sean."

"I said no!" he roared. "When will you understand? I married Peg. I am not marrying you!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

ELEANOR KNEW she had misheard. It was simply impossible that he had married another woman. But her certainty wavered as she stared at his flushed face and angry eyes. Her heart began to pound so swiftly she felt faint and dizzy. She had misheard, hadn't she? Or was she in the throes of a nightmare?

She gripped the back of a chair. The room tilted wildly. "You're not married," she choked.

He seized her arm, steadying her. His gaze was searching and their eyes met. "Peg is dead."

The room was a blur. He was a blur. How could this be happening? Her entire life, she had followed him, chased him, laughed at him, with him; there had been thousands of moments that they had shared. They had swum together, raced their horses, dived off cliffs. There had been card games, hide-and-seek, tug-of-war. And every time she had been in trouble, he had appeared, miraculously, to rescue and save her. The day she had fallen off her pony while following the hunting party, she had been lost and scared. When she had gotten caught in some weeds in the lake, she had been terrified. It hadn't mattered-Sean had always been there.

She had loved him from the first moment she had set eyes on him and she had never stopped loving him, not even after he had so callously taken her innocence.

He had married someone else.

"Here." Sean suddenly handed her a mug of water. "Take a sip. You'll feel better."

She ignored the mug. How could he have married someone else? "Why?" She managed to breathe, her heart suddenly numb, her lips as frozen. She became frightfully cold, in her bones.

"She's dead, Elle. Because of me...they're both dead," he said harshly. "You should sit down."

Somehow she was seated. Her face was wet and she realized that she was crying. She tried to focus on him but he was a haze now, his handsome features blurred. "How could you marry someone else?" she heard someone ask-then realized it was her.

He gripped her hand. "It wasn't like that," he begged tersely. "I didn't love her."

Was he lying now? She simply could not understand his relationship with this other woman-a woman he had decided to marry. She just looked at him, in acute grief and disbelief.

"Why are you staring?" he cried. "It's been four years! So much has happened in the interim! You were marrying Sinclair...I married Peg, and now it's over."

She couldn't comprehend him at all now. All she could understand was that he had been married to another woman. He had left her to marry someone else. It was the single greatest betrayal of her life. If he had felt the way that she did, that they belonged together no matter the circumstance, he would have never been able to bring himself to marry someone else. Marriage was forever. He had chosen to be with another woman for the rest of his life.

And it did not matter that she was deceased. His choice, his decision and his betrayal was what mattered now.

"How long?" she choked out, wiping at her tears. "How long were you married?"

He shook his head. "Not long. Please don't cry."

She somehow met his pale silver eyes. "But you were supposed to marry me," she heard herself whisper.

He stiffened. "I'll go get supper," he said decisively. He strode from the room, and then turned. "Bolt the door."

Eleanor did not move. The refrain haunted her now. He had married a woman named Peg. Her mind turned cruel, intent on torture. She saw an unbearably beautiful woman, Irish, of course, perhaps another earl's daughter. She would be blond and short, because Sean didn't like tall women, and almost too beautiful to even look upon. She had probably been like Lady Blanche Harrington, the woman Tyrell had almost married. Blond, beautiful, perfect-impossibly elegant and gracious to a fault. She saw Sean with the woman, his wife, laughing, adoring, smitten.

She tried to remind herself that he had said that he hadn't loved her. She started to weep. She knew Sean well enough, especially the way he had been before his incarceration, to know that he had cared for this woman. He had cared, perhaps deeply-perhaps the way he currently cared about her, Eleanor.

There was more than passion, Sean!

You don't know anything...you were innocent until the other night!

Eleanor wept harder. She was a fool. He had used her, obviously, the way he used women like Kate. She had been naive enough to think his lovemaking was just that. Had he made love to Peg with the same explosive desire? Surely he had-after all, he had chosen to marry her! The truth was that she was no different from Kate or any other housemaid or farmer's daughter-because she wasn't Peg, because he hadn't waited for her, because he hadn't cared enough to take her hand in marriage, because he had chosen to spend his life with someone else.

She hated the other woman, God she did. It was wrong-that woman was dead. And then she realized that it was Sean she hated.

Eleanor could not breathe. She began to choke for lack of air. But it didn't matter-she didn't care if she lived or died. She only knew one thing. She had to get away from Sean. He was a traitor, in every sense of the word. He had been a traitor to her, to them.

She was never going to forgive him.

She stumbled down the narrow stairs, too late realizing she remained barefoot. Weeping, she did not care. Outside a hundred stars were twinkling in the night sky and the far end of the street was lit with a single cast-iron gas lamp. Eleanor ran.

It didn't matter where she went. It only mattered that she run as hard and as fast as she could go-it only mattered that she escape her own heart and all the pain consuming her.

And then she turned a corner and saw three British soldiers swaggering up the street. They seemed boisterous and drunk. Eleanor ducked into a doorway, where she hid.

Sometime later, the soldiers long since gone, it began to rain.

Eleanor did not notice. She was too cold to notice the ice in her heart and soul.

HE WAS ILL. He walked slowly up the stairs to the room over the cobbler's, unable to stop recalling Eleanor's shock and grief. But she had overreacted to the fact that he had been married, considering that Peg was dead. She had acted as if he had betrayed her. But he had been in shock over the massacre in Kilvore when he had taken his wedding vows. There had been no time to really think it through. The burden of grief had been overwhelming. And he had never, not once in their relationship, indicated that he might love her the way she loved him.

Promise me you will return for me?

I promise.

He stiffened. He had known when he had left her standing at Askeaton's front gates that she had taken his promise in a literal manner, when it had not been made that way. Was this entirely his fault?

The first thing he had done upon returning to Adare was to spy on her, confront her, and then make love to her. And yesterday he had given in to his wildest desires, spending the afternoon with her. He shouldn't have touched her even once. Of course she would have expectations, because she did not understand, really, the danger she was in. Any woman gently born and bred would be expecting marriage from him-but Elle also expected his love, when he had nothing in him to give to anyone, not even her.

"DO YOU, SEAN O'NEILL, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife? To cherish and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"

Sean had been ill then, too. He had stood beside Peg in the small village chapel wearing the smith's dark Sunday suit; Peg was clad in a simple white dress and a borrowed wedding veil. He had looked uneasily at Peg, aware of performing a monstrous duty, suddenly feeling crushed. She had been crying with joy over the impending union, but her tears were also those of grief, for the deaths of her father and friends. For an interminable moment, he had not been able to speak his vows. Peg's image had wavered, her blue eyes turning dark and amber, and Elle had stared expectantly at him. He had been stricken, for the first time in months, thinking of Elle and home, becoming vaguely aware that everything was wrong. But Peg had whispered, "Sean?" And in panic, he had faced her again, then glanced at Michael, who was waiting eagerly for him to marry his mother. Some in the congregation were weeping, still grieving for the loss of brothers and cousins, fathers and sons in the massacre earlier in the week. He had to protect Michael and Peg. Grimly, he faced the priest. "I do."

SEAN JERKED, realizing he stood in the dark, dank stairwell, lost in the past. He hadn't thought about his wedding day even once since then; he'd actually forgotten it-or buried it with his memories of that entire week. Peg and Michael were gone; Elle was not. And now he had to admit to himself that he hadn't told her about his marriage because he had known it would upset her; he could add that to the long list of his crimes against her, his sins.

He started up the stairs. He had not been able to protect his wife and son, but he would not fail Elle. Until she was safe at Adare, with Sinclair, he had no other cause. And he would not think about the other man taking her to wife and to bed.

He hesitated halfway up the dark, narrow stairs. Leaning on the wall, he began to shake. What was happening to him? How had he returned home only to become so caught up in Elle's life-to become so caught up with her? His life had turned cold and black the night Peg and Michael died. It was too late, but now, standing in the dark, aching and alone, he thought of Elle and the stairwell became warm and bright with light. But then, Elle had been the sunshine in his life. When she smiled, he was warmed impossibly, and not just in his body, but in his heart, his soul.

And if he dared to remember being with her in bed, if he dared to remember being in her arms, he might have to admit that she was far more than sunlight and peace-she was his siren call. But it was so terribly dangerous to do so. If he thought about sharing a bed with her, he might explode-and he might decide not to return her to her waiting groom.

But now, he did not know how to best apologize to her and he did not dare attempt to console her. Sean continued up the stairs. Before he reached the top step, he saw the light spilling into the hall and he froze. The front door was wide open.

He dropped the bag and ran to the room. He took one look inside, already knowing she was gone. The flat was empty. He cried out, smashing his fist against the wall. Where did she think to go? Panic began, mingling with raw fear. Peg's faded black-and-white image floated before him in the room, then it was followed by the coldest and most frightening blue-eyed stare he had ever seen. He started to sweat.

He reminded himself that if Reed still had a command in Ireland, he could be anywhere in the country or to the north, near Drogheda. The man was cavalry, his regiment stationed as needed or upon request. He reminded himself that, while Reed had become the monster in his dreams, the man had undoubtedly forgotten Sean's very existence years ago. Reed was never going to touch or hurt Elle.

He turned to go, then whirled back again. Instantly he saw the lace-up boots he'd gotten her.

She was in the city, but she was barefoot. He was distressed as he charged down the stairs, but he reminded himself that was fortunate, for she would not get very far that way.

A few moments later, Sean was mounted and trotting down the street. He could cover much more territory astride than on foot. But Eleanor could be anywhere.

Did she think to walk home?

Knowing her, she might.

He had calmed some of his panic, but a very genuine fear for her safety remained. A beautiful woman, alone on the public roads, dressed as a man, was sure to attract attention from every unsavory sort, even if she eluded the soldiers. Sean spurred Saphyr on.

DAWN WAS SPREADING a pale gray blush across the harbor just southeast of the city. Sean sat the stud on the low rise of a hill, too frightened for Elle to be exhausted. He had quickly realized that if she chose to remain in the city and hide, he would never find her. He had decided to ride north toward Limerick, but she had been nowhere to be seen on the main roadway. He had given up when he realized that she could not have gone that far on foot.

Of course, he did not know if she remained on foot. If she had somehow gained transportation, then she might be on her way home. He should be relieved, but there would be no relief until he knew she had arrived safely at Adare.

He needed his wits now, but they were failing him. Where was she? Was she all right? What if she had been accosted, assaulted, worse? Had she been apprehended by troops? He was on the verge of panic, making it hard to think.

Then one thought filled his mind. Cliff and his brother intended to help him, regardless of his wishes. There was a harbor just below him, where the ferries ran between Cobh and Cork. Sean stared down at the gulf of water that lay between the harbor and the island, and the shoreline of Cobh's jumbled buildings. He had purchased a spyglass the previous night and now, he began to study the panorama below.

A dozen dinghies and sloops were at berth in the harbor, a few fishing boats already putting out to sea. The only large ship in their midst was the HMS Gallatine, an incongruous sight, as the naval base was on the island's other side in Cobh. He lifted his spyglass, for a wider-ranging look-and smiled.

A frigate, far larger, more heavily gunned and quite ominous, her hull painted red and black, rode her anchor some meters away, all sails reefed, the standing rigging vast.

Only Cliff had a frigate painted in such bold colors. If he was not mistaken, that was The Fair Lady, oh yes.

Sean spurred his mount down the hill, leaving Cork well behind. If he had realized Cliff might be nearby, had Elle, as well? He was afraid to hope, but he would give anything to find her safely aboard that ship. He was worried enough now that he would beg Cliff for his help in finding Eleanor.

He left the stallion at the closest dock, where he seized a small fishing boat. He was no sailor, but he quickly untied her moorings and began furiously rowing toward The Fair Lady. Halfway there, he heard the watch call out. By the time he reached the ship's hull, several sailors stood there, throwing down hooks and a rope ladder. At first glance, Sean mistook the trio for Moors and pirates. But the man at the railing was no Moor. Although bronzed from the sun, his tawny hair covered with a red scarf, a gold earring hugging one ear, and a short, Turkish-style velvet vest over his linen shirt, it was Cliff standing above him.

The small boat secured, Sean quickly scrambled up to the deck of his stepbrother's ship. Cliff threw his arm around him, steering him across the deck, past numerous cannon, and to the captain's cabin. Sean took an inventory of the stepbrother he barely recognized. He was heavily armed, a huge sword with a bejeweled hilt sheathed in its scabbard on his hip and a dagger winked out from his belt. A pistol was in a shoulder holster. Cliff clearly meant business and Sean was reassured.

"Are you mad?" Cliff said, low. Then, in a voice of command, "No one is to approach this ship and no one is to leave her."

Cries of "Aye, cap," sounded.

"I am pleased to see you...too," Sean muttered. "What? No gold rings?"

Cliff laughed then, and gestured Sean inside. Sean stepped into a large cabin painted a dark, surprising red. A red Chinese rug, laced with green, blue and gold flowers, covered most of the wood floor. A vast canopied bed was centered in the room, also furnished in red and gold, not far from a dining table with four burgundy velvet chairs. A Portuguese desk with spiral legs faced the door covered with maps and charts. Sean's gaze swept the room and his heart sank.

Cliff booted the door closed and embraced him, hard. "Sean, damn it!"

Sean's attention turned to his stepbrother, whom he had not seen in well over four years, as Cliff had been sailing the West Indies before his departure. Cliff was actually two years younger than he was, but because of his bold nature, in many ways he had seemed a peer while growing up. They had been especially close, perhaps because they were as different as night and day. Sean was cautious, conservative and responsible, Cliff a hellion from the day he was born. He met his brother's blue gaze and found it curious, intent and deeply searching. "It has been a long time."

"It most certainly has." Cliff folded his arms across his chest. "We arrived last night, close to midnight. As soon as the British realize I am here, you can be certain I shall be watched." His gaze slid over him again, from head to toe. His smile faded. "You barely resemble the brother I grew up with. Are you all right, Sean?"

Sean was well aware that he resembled a villain far more than he did a gentleman, but he certainly had no time to explain. "You hardly appear...the nobleman's son."

"I have no use for fashion and airs at sea. What has happened?"

"Have you seen Elle?" Sean asked grimly.

Cliff started. "No, I have not. But she is with you, isn't she?"

Sean sat down. "No. She is not with me." He tried to breathe, the panic rising all over again. "I need your help...I am afraid."

Cliff clasped his shoulder. "Tell me what has happened," he said very calmly. "And we will make our plans."

Sean looked at him. "She left.... I went to get supper and when I returned...she was gone."

Cliff was wary. "Why would Eleanor leave you, Sean? My understanding is that she is deeply, if foolishly, in love with you. After all, she did leave Sinclair at the altar."

Sean met his stepbrother's penetrating, but not disapproving, eyes. "I am a fool, Cliff. I told her the truth...that I had married another woman."

Cliff's eyes flared with surprise. It was a moment before he spoke. "I begin to understand. I had no idea. Who is this paragon? And where is she?"

"No, you don't," Sean said grimly. "Peg is dead, as is her son."

Cliff stared. When he spoke, his tone was harsh. "I am sorry for your loss, Sean. But you surely did not expect Eleanor to withstand your news? She has been in love with you for as long as anyone can recall. She waited for you to return, to her, Sean. We watched her pine for you for years."